Play
by sherlockeddd
Summary: Set somewhere between series 1 and 2 of BBC Sherlock. May contain Johnlock, though nothing explicit! Rated T for some language/topics. My very first fanfiction, so constructive criticism is very welcome! Please read and review!


**A/N Hi! This is my first time using this site so I don't really know what I'm doing! It would be a great help if anyone could explain how everything works on here, because to be honest I haven't got a clue. This is my first fic, so constructive criticism is very welcome. If there's anything I'm not doing, please let me know! Also, I'm only 13 and don't know that much about life yet- if I've made a mistake concerning how the world works, please tell me, haha!**

They had just opened the front door, wiped their wet feet and proceeded into the hall, arguing good naturedly about trivial matters such as the importance of relationships in one's life. All of a sudden, the taller man froze, his thin frame tensed under his long black coat.

"John, stop."

"Huh? What is it? What's wro-"

" _Shut up_ " hissed Sherlock. He began to sniff at the air, his nose wrinkling.

"Mint. _Mint_. Peppermint? No. Spearmint? Yes. Spearmint." he whispered.

"Sherlock? What's going on? What is i-"

A creak from upstairs. Two pairs of eyes flew up to the ceiling, then locked into each others. A look of understanding. A nod. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson began to creep up the stairs of 221b Baker Street, as quietly as they possibly could. They stopped near the top of the first flight, just before the corner that when turned would give them a view of the living room. John fingered the trigger on his gun, hand as steady as a rock. Suddenly, another noise; the sound of a window creaking. The men charged up the rest of the stairs and raced into the flat, breathing loudly, wielding their weapons, spinning around, searching for their intruder.

Nobody was there. Whoever had payed the flat a visit had left no signs of a disturbance, only the lingering smell of spearmint chewing gum. A gust of wind blew through wide open window, scattering papers that had been stacked messily on the desk all over the floor. John strode over and stuck his head out, surveying the street below.

"Everything looks pretty normal down there. Whoever it was left no marks on the windowsill, or the walls. Gosh, I wonder how they did it? No sign of ropes...We're a couple of floors up, it's a sheer drop down. What do you think, Sherlock?" asked John. When he was offered no reply, he turned around, confused. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock was standing completely still, his gaze focused hard upon his favourite armchair. John walked over and stood beside him. Sherlock wasn't looking at the armchair, but at what was sitting upright on it. His violin case was propped up with a couple of plump cushions, looking perfectly normal. John grew even more confused.

"Sherlock, is something wrong with the violin? The chair? Why are you staring at it like that?" he paused. "Everything in here looks fine to me, though I think we should probably check the whole flat to see if they took anything, just to be safe, ok?"

"I didn't leave it there." Sherlock said in a low voice, still staring intently. "It was on the floor next to the fireplace before we left. It's been moved."

"Ahh. Okay." John said. "Listen, you had better be careful. We don't know who we're dealing with. Anything could be inside that case, and from past experience you can never be too careful."

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement. He then cautiously approached the chair, slowly stretching out his arm. John held his breath. In one swift movement Sherlock grasped the handle of the case and set it on the floor. Nothing happened. He quickly dropped to his knees, unzipped it and opened it up. There, looking perfectly ordinary, was a violin, with its bow strapped beside it. John slowly released the air inside his mouth, letting it whistle softly.

"Bit of an anticlimax, eh? At least it's all ok. Suppose I'll go check the rest of the flat then?" John gestured towards the door.

"That's not my violin, John."

"Hang on, what?"

"I said that's not my violin!" half-shouted Sherlock, clearly agitated. He undid the strap around the instrument's neck and lifted it out of the case. A strange smell arose; a sort of damp wood and strong chemical mixture. Both men wrinkled their noses in disgust. Sherlock flipped the instrument upside-down to examine it, but as he did so a small folded note fell out and landed at Sherlock's knees. John bent down and picked it up, unfolding it as he did so. On the crinkled page, in a rather childish scrawl, were three simple words.

 _'Play With Me'_


End file.
